"Here's your good place to pan," exulted Terry. "See the gravel and the bars? Sort of an eddy. Regular pound-a-day place!"
"Yes; and somebody else has been digging, too!" growled George, disgusted. "Can't we ever discover anything?"
"They aren't digging now. Those are only gopherings. We'll get deeper. That's where the big strikes lie—down deep on bed-rock," encouraged Terry.
"Dig deep, boy," bade George.
"Dig deep, for a pound a day."
And they set to work. George's spade clinked on rock, and at blade length he carefully dumped dirt and gravel into his pan.
"Golly, I believe I see gold!" he breathed. Terry paused to await results. George panned feverishly—grew more and more excited. "Hurrah! Look-ee here! We've struck it!" His pan, not yet fully cleared, was sparkling and yellow all over the bottom! "We've struck it!"
"We've struck it!" cheered Terry, forgetful of his own pan awaiting.
They danced. Shep barked and gamboled. And a heavy voice broke in with—
"Ja! You struck it. Maybe not! Maybe you get struck mit a club! Hold your hands up an' keep quiet until I see what kind of robbers you are dot come into my gulch."